“Please don’t stop,” she pleaded as she looked up at him through tear-filled eyes.
The way his eyes glazed over let her know he was close, and just as he pumped into her one final time, he lowered his face and kissed her with everything he felt for her.
Afterward, they lay together catching their breath, Amara across Colin’s heaving chest as he stroked her hair.
“I still have to leave, you know,” she said.
Amara’s body moved up and down with each exhale. “At what time?”
She arched her head to look at the clock. “Soon.”
“You can’t seem to give me a straight answer about anything these days, best friend,” he said.
She sat up and buried her face in her hands. “What do you want me to say, Colin?”
“At what time does your flight leave? Will you call me when you get there? Are you going to drop the bullshit and stop downplaying our relationship?”
She sighed heavily and dropped her hands from her face. When she faced him, she no longer tried to hide her sentiment. She was naked and vulnerable, physically and emotionally. “I don’t mean to downplay our relationship; I’m just telling you that it’s got to be over.”
His face reflected her seriousness. “And I’m telling you that despite what you say, it’ll never be over.”
A BLACK TOWN car picked up Amara shortly after Colin left her apartment, and she called her mother to let her know she was on her way to the airport.
“You’re on your way already?” her mother asked, incredulously.
“Yup.” Amara’s response was short. Her nerves were shot to shit and she couldn’t control them.
“I wish you would have come by one more time.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I just... I didn’t have much notice.”
Her mother sighed heavily. “I know. It’s fine. Please remember what I told you. I love you, Amara.”
“Love you too.”
When Amara hung up, she silenced her phone and laid her head back, closing her eyes.
“But what if I don’t do it, even if I signed? What if I don’t agree?” Amara asked anxiously.
“The real question here is: Who do you care about more? Him or your mother?” Philip asked bluntly.
She’d blanched at his statement. Amara recalled the day she found her mother weeping on the bathroom floor after she began to lose her rich, dark hair during the chemotherapy. She had comforted her mother, and told her not to worry—that it would grow back. The look in her mother’s normally jubilant eyes had nearly crushed Amara. She knew cancer treatment was never a sure thing, but she wouldn’t stop fighting for her mother’s life. Of course she would choose her mother over Colin.
Amara had expected to be sad over her break up with Colin, but she hadn’t imagined feeling so uncomfortable. His words replayed in her head, but more than his words, it was his face that haunted her. She knew it had hurt him to think she’d had little regard for their relationship. She figured he would hate her for that and she hoped he would eventually move on without her.
She had heard people talk about hearts weighing heavily in their chest after a break up, but never really understood it until that moment. As she sat there looking out the window, mentally saying goodbye to the only home she’d ever known, she felt her heart sinking into her stomach. Her cell phone vibrated, and Amara slipped her hand into the pocket of the coat she still wore, although it was overly warm in the car. As soon as her eyes met Colin’s in his picture, she regretted looking. Why was he calling her now? What could possibly be left to say? She switched off the phone as she shrugged her coat from her shoulders and put it on the seat beside her.
Amara took the sketch book out of her purse and was glad she’d thought to bring it. She began to draw as she stared out the window at the city she was leaving behind —at the bridges, the water, and the hope this city gives newcomers when they step foot there for the first time. As she wept quietly, the tears seeped from her eyes, falling to the sketchpad and muddying her vision of the world she knew.
WHEN SHE ARRIVED in Paris, Amara was too heartbroken and exhausted to be curious or excited. She stepped out of the airplane and dragged her feet to baggage claim. She was still in a funk after she got her bag and walked out to the front of the airport. A stocky, grey-haired man wearing a dark suit held up a sign with her name on it. She walked toward him and raised her hand in a slight wave.
“I’m Amara.”
He gave her a once over and nodded. “Naveen,” he said in heavily accented English.
He took her bag and wheeled it outside as she trailed behind him to the black luxury car parked at the curb. There was a police officer standing in front of it, and he waved at Naveen and then at Amara as they approached, before ducking into his car. It must be a Parisian thing. She couldn’t imagine a police officer watching a car outside of JFK, unless he was giving it a ticket.
The drive from the airport was long enough so that Amara was able to see a lot of the things she’d only seen on television, like the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. She even got a glimpse of a miniature version of the Statue of Liberty. Amara tried to pay as much attention to the road names as she could, so that she wouldn’t be completely lost if she was ever alone in the city. She didn’t have much practical French under her belt with which to get by. She had only picked up a few phrases here and there from the classes she took in high school, so her concern about getting lost was well-founded.
They drove a couple of blocks past the Eiffel Tower and turned on a street with rows of large cobblestone buildings that overlooked a river.
“La Seine,” Naveen said, looking at Amara through the rearview as he pointed at the body of water. Those were the first words he’d spoken since they’d gotten in the car at the airport.
Amara nodded. “It’s nice,” she said, even though it wasn’t, but she didn’t know what else to say. It reminded her of the Hudson River.
“Pay attention to number. Number and road name. Rue de Seine is long one.”
“Okay. Thank you, Naveen,” she whispered.
He sighed deeply as his eyes cut away from hers back to the road. ”I will drive you when you need to go. This is home, work is...” he paused, squinting his eyes. “Twenty minutes. Other driver name Joshua, your kind—American,” he specified. He stopped the car in front of one of the buildings and shifted in his seat to face her. “No other car. Only we give you ride. Very dangerous.”
Amara frowned. “Dangerous how?”
She looked around dubiously. There were people strolling along the sidewalk—women in nice boots and big designer bags—so his words didn’t seem to carry much weight.
“The neighborhood is not so dangerous, but the house is known.”
The frown was still in place, but she nodded nonetheless. She didn’t think she would understand him even if he expanded on that. She stepped out of the car and looked up and down the bank to the river, taking a moment to close her eyes to the sunlight and breathe in the air. Amara thought of New York and how different it smelled there. Opening her eyes, she realized this was a brand new place that would bring new experiences. It was a thought that should have made her feel happy and excited, but only brought sadness. If Amara had the choice, she wouldn’t be building new experiences on her own; she would be sharing them with someone; someone like Colin. She felt so alone, that she didn’t even give Paris a chance to make her feel welcome. She didn’t give the city a chance to woo her upon her arrival—not the way she’d heard it would. She didn’t see it as a romantic place; she saw nothing but loneliness and dark corners.
It was a bleak day, the sky felt as sad as her heart. It was near twilight, she realized, when she saw the outline of the moon ascending as the light of the sun began to dim. Everyone thinks of the sun as being bright and powerful, but it sits in the vast sky all alone. In a sense, she felt like the moon and Colin the sun. They would accomplish things separately – never together, as they’d wanted to. He could
only shine in her absence, and she would only be visible in his. Amara hated that thought, and the longer she looked at the burning sun above her, the more she wished it would just go away.
A surge of wind rushed through and whipped her long, dark hair across her face, snapping her out of her reverie.
“Mademoiselle?” Naveen said, gesturing for her to walk into the building.
The lobby was large, with marble floors and walls to match. There was a woman sitting at the front desk and a valet dressed in black from head to toe. He tipped his hat as he opened the door that led to the elevators, and Amara nodded in return. She looked around the hallway before she noticed the brilliant red carpet under her shoes. It reminded her of the red carpet at the Oscar’s. A short laugh escaped her lips as she thought of the irony.
“You were saying?” Naveen asked.
Amara shook her head. “Just thinking.”
Naveen shrugged. Amara got another look at him then, no longer lost in her own thoughts. He must have been in his early forties, and seemed like a decent man, considering. He had thick, salt-and-pepper hair that reminded her of her father’s, the way it parted naturally in the middle. Amara shook her head; she did not want to think about her father. Her heart began to pound loudly at the sound of the elevator bell, and when she stepped in, she held on to the bar to steady herself as the weight of her reality began to make her panic. After her thoughts of Colin and her parents were stripped from her mind, she was only left with one: What the hell had she gotten herself into?
The cab stopped on the fifth floor, which was the highest. When the doors opened, Amara’s confusion deepened. It didn’t open to a hallway, but a foyer. It was a penthouse—large and luxurious—with crystal chandeliers hanging every five feet or so from the next, and Tiffany lamps on every side table.
“Is this Vivienne’s home?” Amara asked.
He shook his head, frowning, before walking down the hallway to the right. Since her suitcase was in his hand, Amara took it as her cue to follow him. Naveen stopped in front of a door, opened it, and let her walk in before him. Amara did, slightly uncomfortable about being in a bedroom with a man she’d just met. She walked in, but made sure she stood just inside the door. The room was large and had a dark wooden, queen-size, four-poster bed sitting in the middle of the space. The blinds were pulled back, and the sunlight bounced off of the vanity mirror across from the bed.
“Toilets,” he said, pointing at a door inside the room. “Closet.” The door beside the bathroom. “That’s it. Joshua will be here later.”
Amara nodded. Joshua the American. She almost sighed with relief, knowing that “her kind” would be there to help her at some point. Amara didn’t know if it was a French thing or a work thing, but Naveen’s random commentaries weren’t helping her nerves at all.
“Thank you.”
Naveen made an exaggerated bow and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. As soon as he did, Amara locked the door and sagged against it, letting out a long, deep breath. A knock on the door had her bolting upright, hands shaking with trepidation as she turned and unlocked the door. An older woman with white hair stood on the other side, dressed in a French maid costume. Amara struggled to keep a straight face as the lady spoke and bowed.
“Mademoiselle Maloof,” she said in a thick French accent. “Madame Celeste, at your disposal.”
“Nice to meet you.” Amara smiled slightly.
“Madame Vivienne asked me to give you this” She handed her a folded sheet of paper. “Supper will be ready at sept heures.”
She thought she understood that it meant seven, so she raised her hand, making the number in question.
“Oui,” Celeste said smiling.
Once Celeste was gone, Amara shut the door and locked it, before unfolding the paper.
A new name... Amara thought about it, as she walked to her suitcase, taking out the envelope Philip had given her. She sat down in the middle of the bed and looked at Vivienne’s note again. She would have to ask her about the name—should it be French? Should it be slutty, like an escort’s name probably was? Amara’s stomach turned at the thought. Her mind a blank, she decided to think about it later and opened Philip’s envelope instead. In it, she found pages of instructions. One was a welcome letter to PB Representations, France. Another detailed her duties for the company; the others were instructions to set up an email address for the Sinful Services website once she chose a name. She thought that was especially weird, but there was little about her current situation that wasn’t.
The longer she lay in bed, the more she wanted to call Colin. She figured she should, just once. Amara glanced at the time on her phone and sorted through her call log until she found his number. Her finger hovered over his name for a long moment, and just before she pressed it, she decided against it. She checked the last voice message he left her instead.
“I am so pissed off at you,” Colin said, and despite his words, she found herself closing her eyes to relish the sound of his voice. He was speaking quietly, slowly. “I don’t even think I can speak to you. Actually, I know I can’t. Can’t believe you would leave me. Just like that.” Amara realized that Colin was very, very drunk. The ache in his voice was killing her. She wanted to reach into the phone and hold his face, just to look at him one last time. To kiss him, just once more. She couldn’t hold back her tears as she continued listening to his voice. “I should have said this before, a million times... so I’m saying it now... I love you, Amara Maloof, more than the stars in the sky.” With that, Colin hung up. Amara sat there, in silence, absorbed in the void of nothingness left by the absence of his voice.
“More than the stars in the sky,” she whispered back to the empty room.
AMARA STEPPED INTO the dining room just as the clock chimed on the 7th hour. She’d rushed to be on time and had worn a maxi dress she’d found in the closet of her room. Thankfully it was black so no one could see the wet marks her hair was leaving down her back. She’d washed it and had to let it air dry since she couldn’t find a hair dryer. So much for “packing light.” The gold sandals she wore kept getting caught in the long hem of her dress as she walked, and she gathered the loose material in one hand as she entered an empty dining room.
The large table was adorned with two plate settings and fine china. Celeste was still setting the table while Amara admired a replica painting of The Girl with the Pearl Earring. She was stunned at how beautiful it was, painted with dark red colors instead of light blues. Absorbed in examining the beautiful reproduction, Amara didn’t hear Vivienne walk into the room until she was standing beside her.
“Exquisite piece, don’t you think?” Vivienne asked, startling Amara.
“Yes, very,” she responded.
“How was your flight, darling?” Vivienne asked as Amara turned to her. She greeted her with one kiss on each cheek and led her to the table. Her big blue eyes shot towards the open door as soon as their butts hit the chair. “Celeste! Wine!” she demanded.
“The flight was fine.”
Celeste walked in quickly, pouring red wine in both of their glasses before excusing herself.
“Good. Do you have any questions? Did you think of a name?”
Amara took a deep breath, taking her time to let it out. “I have a lot of questions.”
Vivienne raised an eyebrow. “Start asking. Have you met Chloe?”
“No. Was I supposed to?”
“Celeste!” Vivienne shouted, making Amara jump in her seat. “Where is Chloe?”
Celeste walked back into the room, responding to Vivienne in French. Amara only caught a couple of words during their rushed conversation and couldn’t piece anything together.
“You may meet Chloe tonight,” Vivienne informed Amara. She didn’t care, but nodded anyway.
“The name... I don’t know how to pick one.”
“You just choose whatever name you’d like, there are no rules. Well, try not to be distasteful,” Vivienne said, scrunchin
g her nose as if she smelled something foul.
“Okay... do I need to tell you now?”
Vivienne let out an exasperated sigh. “Tomorrow morning, Mademoiselle. That’s your deadline.”
“Okay. Email, why do I need an email with my fake name?”
“Pseudonym, Mademoiselle. Pseudonym... fake name sounds so... retched.” She made another face.
“Pseudonym,” Amara repeated, trying not to roll her eyes, even though she was becoming slightly annoyed.
Celeste brought their food and placed it in front of each woman. It was seafood pasta that smelled delicious, and it made Amara’s stomach grumble.
“You’re not allergic, are you?” Celeste asked in a voice that made Amara glad she wasn’t.
“No.”
“The emails... at Méchant we try to keep things personal. Some of our clients just want attention—emotional attention, not physical. Of course, for others it’s only about the physical, but most people just want whatever attention they can get.”
“My contract states no sexual relations, but Philip said otherwise.”
Vivienne laughed. “Of course he did. Philip always says otherwise. He may want you for himself.”
Amara’s eyes widened and she began to cough, choking on her wine. Vivienne patted her on the back as she tried to regain her breath.
“For himself?” Amara croaked out.
Vivienne shrugged. “Who knows why he would add that to your contract.”
Amara looked at her blankly for a moment, not knowing what kind of response that merited.
“PB Marketing... when will I start working there?”
“On Monday,” Vivienne said. “One of the drivers will pick you up and escort you there.”
“When will we go back to the States?”
“When we feel you’re properly trained, or when Philip sees no further use for you here.”
“When will that be?”
Vivienne put her fork down. “When we decide.”
It seemed as if Vivienne was trying to burn a hole through Amara with the intensity of her gaze, so she looked away, focusing on a large painting of a naked woman.
The Devil's Contract Page 6
